Glow in the Dark Star Stickers
by It's That Kid
Summary: It's a single packet of glow in the dark stars-the kind that stick to your ceiling. They're not incredibly expensive, and to anyone else in the world, they're just a dumb children's toy. But you are Richard Simmons, and these stars mean more to you than anything you could imagine. (Grif/Simmons, rated for swearing)
1. Stars

You wonder when a pack of glow in the dark sticky stars started to mean so much to you that you started to cry over them. You sit in your room, clutching the crinkling cellophane in your hands and you cry so hard your glasses fog up.

Your name is Richard Simmons, and your boyfriend just broke up with you.

* * *

><p>You first meet Dexter Grif on Xbox Live, playing Halo. Since the very beginning, Grif was always the most laid back person you've ever met. He hardly even raged when he died-a loose expletive here and a casual insult there, but that was all he ever did.<p>

That wasn't quite the case for you. It didn't take long to work you up to a fervor, and Grif always enjoyed pushing your buttons to see just how long you would last before you snapped.

* * *

><p>"You're on my goddamn <em>team<em>," you groaned. "Stop fucking shooting me!"

"Hmm...nope."

"Whose idea was it to even add them anyway?" Church asked. "Don't get me wrong, winning has never been easier with you two fuckwads, but I can go without the constant bickering."

"The point of the game is to, y'know, play the game," Tucker added. "It gets kinda boring when there's literally no challenge."

"Also you should consider solving your marriage problems with a therapist, and not in a video game," Caboose concluded.

"We're not _married_," you snapped.

"That is _exactly_ what I mean."

* * *

><p>You're kind of surprised to realize just how long it took you to realize exactly <em>why<em> Grif would always single you out. Three solid months of your friends putting up with the two of you arguing (well; you arguing and Grif laughing his ass off) and Grif patiently listen to you scream your head off at him before you _finally_ got it.

* * *

><p>"Why is it always <em>me<em>," you groused to him one day in a private chat. "Seriously, Grif, it's getting old."

"Because you're cute when you get annoyed," he said, and then immediately after, "shit."

You didn't know what to say, but you didn't have to say anything. For the first time in your life, you hear Dexter Grif talk _fast_.

"I mean-it's just-y'know, you get really mad your voice just kind of gets all hysterical-"

"Grif."

"Pretend you didn't hear that," he begged.

"_Grif_. If you weren't so busy acting like a freaking three-year old, I would have gone out with you."

"_Fuck_, you're gay?" Grif groaned. "And I blew it. I fucking blew it!"

"You absolute dork," you agreed. "But I feel sorry for you. So fine. I'll go out with you. Be your boyfriend. Whatever."

Grif was silent for a moment. "You're serious?"

"Shut up, asshole," you groused. "It's not my fault your idea of flirting is about as romantic as a puma."

"Pumas are _highly_ romantic, I'll have you know," Grif sniffed. "They give offerings of food."

You rolled your eyes. "A warthog, then. You're about as romantic as a warthog."

* * *

><p>Skype, as you quickly learn, is the coolest thing in the world. Within no time, you get to meet, face to face Leonard Church, Lavernius Tucker, Michael J. Caboose, and best of all, Dexter Grif.<p>

Seeing Grif for the first time only makes you realize just _how_ skinny you really are. Your arms are practically sticks, and compared to his deep tan, you're almost sickly pale. You push up your glasses nervously.

"Fuck, Simmons, you never told me you were beautiful." Grif doesn't look like he's just smooth talking, either-his jaw goes slack and he has a profoundly happy expression on his face.

You can't help but start to cry when you realize that _you're_ the reason he's smiling so wide. "Neither did you."

* * *

><p>"You ever wonder about how different we are?"<p>

You frowned at him. "What, you mean like how you're a lazy asshole and I have a 5.0 GPA?"

"_You're_ the asshole," Grif corrected you. "But I mean, more than that. You're like, so strung out all the time-"

"-and you live in Hawaii."

"And I live in Hawaii. And I'm tanned."

"And I have a Jackson Pollock of freckles on my face, I get it."

Grif paused his line of thinking. "I like your freckles."

You scowled at him. "You're supposed to say that."

"But I do like your freckles," Grif protested. "Just like how you like stars. I like your freckles."

* * *

><p>You wait for Grif to come online. You have Skype open on your laptop and you're signed into Xbox Live, but no cigar. You clutch his note in your hand.<p>

_'I think you should find someone else. Someone better for you.'_

_'I'm sorry.'_

"What do you _mean_, you _asshole_?" you ask your empty room. There's no one _better_ for you. You lay back on your bed and when you see the glow in the dark stars stuck to your ceiling, you cry.

* * *

><p>"Are those...<em>stars<em> stuck to your ceiling?"

You flushed bright red and hastily picked up your laptop. "Shut up. It was for a school project."

"_Was_?" Grif asked, but laughed before you could sputter angrily at him. "What grade did you even get on that project, man? You only have one Dipper!"

"There wasn't enough room on my ceiling," you huffed. "The Big Dipper was too fat and he got left out, alright?"

The next day he sent you a picture of his ceiling, blank and white with one huge Big Dipper in the middle.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: Never fear, for this author is a sucker for happy endings.

(Also, if you read Blood Gulch High, do not despair! More is on the way. More information can be found on my profile.)


	2. War

**AN**: I have no idea what I'm doing

* * *

><p>There is a war to be fought. Where and with whom, you don't really care.<p>

You don't really care about anything anymore.

You've long since accepted that to your father, you will never amount to anything more than a mistake. And to Grif-well. He's made it quite clear that he doesn't want to talk to you. There are only two important people left in your life, and the both of them have decided that they want nothing to do with you.

'_I might as well be some sort of use_,' you think, '_even if it's just being cannon fodder_.'

Boot camp is both easier and harder than you expected. You've been working out ever since that first time you saw Grif, but even so, you're only just strong enough to make it in. On the other hand, you have no problem mindlessly following orders and submitting to authority, unlike nearly half of the camp.

"Y'know Simmons," your commanding officer says one day, "I like you."

You're surprised. Your commanding officer is strict and gruff, and the praise catches you off guard. You open your mouth to thank him, but he holds his hand up to stop you.

"But you're a huge kissass," he continues. "Nobody likes a kissass, Simmons. Fix that."

"Yes, sir," you say.

* * *

><p>You are not ready for deployment.<p>

You've been in basic training for so long you've forgotten that there's a real war going on, and you're going to be in it. Your heart races through the night, but you're surrounded with the sound of snoring. Nobody else seems to remember that there is an 87% chance that they are going to die.

The ride out to the battlefield is long and uncomfortable, as well as incredibly boring. The convoy jolts and bounces far too much for you to try to catch up on any sleep you might have missed last night, and what time isn't spent in terse silence is spent in uncontrollable boredom.

The fact that the other soldiers cheer when they finally see you makes you worried.

* * *

><p>You find out you have a few more weeks of more intensive training before you actually go out onto the battlefield. The whole thing is anticlimactic. You don't remember any of it, really.<p>

* * *

><p>"So, where're you from?"<p>

One of the soldiers (a veteran from the battlefield camp, it seems) tries to relieve the tension. "I'm from Utah."

"G-Georgia," the kid next to you stammers out. It was clear from the very beginning that he was drafted, unlike you. Sometimes you wonder what he's doing in the army. He can't be any younger than you are, but he still feels too young to be there. Too young to go off to his death.

It goes down the line. Indiana. Pennsylvania. California. Tennessee. Idaho. It grinds to a halt after that-one of the soldiers, remarkably, is sleeping.

The Utah soldier nudges his leg. "Wake up, man," he grouses. "We're going to the battlefield!"

"Exactly," a familiar voice says. "I want to enjoy it while I can." Nevertheless, he sits up, and he looks three years older and twenty pounds lighter than the last time you saw him. "Hawaii," he says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Your heart stops. "Grif?"

"You two know each other?" Indiana asks, looking between the two of you in surprise. You don't hear the question.

Grif doesn't seem to hear it either. He's too busy staring at you. "_Simmons_?" He immediately scowls at you. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, asshole," you snap back. "The hell is wrong with you?"

Grif looks at you like you're crazy. "What's wrong with _me_? I got drafted into the fucking _army_, that's what's wrong with me!"

"And you didn't once think to _tell me_?"

"I'm gonna fucking die out here, Simmons, and I didn't want you stuck mourning me like the dumbass you are!"

"Th-that's no way to talk," the kid from Georgia mumbles, but nobody's paying any attention to him anymore.

Least of all you. "You don't get it." You stare down at your hands; bigger now, and calloused from all the work you've done with them. You don't bother blinking back the tears. "You're the only one that I _have_."

Grif is right: if he had gotten killed on the battlefield, you don't think you ever could have moved on. The uncertainty of not knowing what was happening to him honestly might have killed you. But even breaking up with him didn't change anything. You love him more than anyone in the universe, and you honestly doubt that anything will ever change that.

Grif sighs, and he covers your hands with his. "Of all the ways we coulda met," he murmurs, "it had to be like this."

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2<strong>: So I figured that at this point it's pretty ambiguous what ages they are, and to be completely honest, I don't really know? I wasn't really planning things out when I wrote this. (Oops.)


	3. Want

You wake up to hear yelling.

"There's nothing wrong with my goddamn _legs_, Doc!"

"What he needs is _rest_, not visitors! And like it or not, you're also injured!"

You wonder what is or isn't wrong with Grif's legs. You wonder, belatedly, where you are. Everything is blurry, but you're too tired to reach over and grab your glasses. The ceiling doesn't look like the ceiling of the bunks. It looks decidedly less solid.

You pass out.

* * *

><p>"How did we get stuck doing this again?"<p>

Grif shrugged. "I'm probably the most expendable one here. I don't try, and I don't care. You just happened to stick around."

You frowned at the minefield in front of you. "Great."

"It's _easy_," Grif said, mimicking your sergeant. "All you gotta do is stroll across and shoot everybody inside."

"Yeah, fuck you too," you snapped. You squeezed your eyes shut and tentatively took a step forward.

Not exploded. You let out your breath and breath in once more. One step, one breath.

"You _can_ go faster, you know," Grif piped up behind you.

"Shut up, Grif." You picked up the pace, just a little bit. '_You can do this_,' you thought to yourself. _'No biggie. Just keep walk-'_

* * *

><p>"Shush now, don't you worry," somebody says.<p>

"Where's Grif?" you ask him. It is of the utmost importance that you know where Grif is. You don't know where he is, and you hear loud beeping. It's getting faster, and faster, and faster-

"Shhh. Only dreams now."

* * *

><p>You still can't see. When you lift your arm to look for your glasses, you see a tube sticking out of it.<p>

"That's new," you murmur aloud. You look around for your glasses, but all you see are different monitors and screens. You can't see anything, and it's starting to bug you.

"Simmons!"

You turn your head towards the sound, and you can see the fuzzy outline of a person. Grif slowly comes into focus as you squint.

"Here, I brought you something." Cool metal slides on your face, and the world slides into focus. "I figured you'd have an extra pair."

You frown. "Extra? What happened to the first one?"

Grif's face tightens. You see bright lights behind your eyelids and you hear a deafening roar. For the first time, you notice that Grif's right sleeve is looser than it should be. For the first time, you realize that you can't feel anything past your left knee.

For some reason, you can't feel anything.

"It's not fair," you tell him. "When I enlisted, I wanted to die. But then I found you, and I wanted to stay here, no matter what. But now..." You know that since your limbs have effectively been lopped off, there's no use for you and Grif in the battlefield anymore. You'll get awarded a medal and shipped off back home.

Back home, with a deadbeat dad who never wanted you and no way to take care of yourself.

"I don't know what I want, Grif," you say, but it comes out as a whisper.

Grif sits down next to you, and he holds your hand in his. His dark thumb brushes over the pale skin of the back of your hand. "Do you know what I want, Simmons?

"I want to go home. I want to show you what a _real_ beach is like. I want to show you real waves, and warm sand. I want you to nag at me for not putting on sunblock, and I want to see you stick out like a sore thumb on the beach with your pale skin and your fucking _awesome_ freckles. I want to go home, Simmons, and I want to take you with me." He presses the back of your hand to his lips, and you can feel his lips moving when he asks you, "What do you say?"


	4. Polaris

Hawaii is _hot_. The sun is always shining, even when it's raining, and even though it feels like you've put on a gallon of sunblock you can _feel_ the imminent sunburn. The major cities look normal enough, but the closer they get to the coast, the more sand Simmons starts to see. Eventually you get to a road that's more sand than asphalt.

The more sand they find, though, the more excited Grif seems to get. "You've never seen an ocean before, have you?" he boasts.

You roll your eyes. "I've seen the movies, Grif, of course I've seen an ocean."

He sticks his tongue out at you. "I mean a _real_ ocean. With your own eyes."

He has you there. Still, you shrug. You lived practically right next door to the Great Lakes back in Michigan, and you're not so sure an ocean will be that much different than Lake Michigan on a bright, sunny day.

You're wrong. You are so very, very wrong.

The first difference you notice is the sand. Of course, it's been everywhere ever since you got out of the airport, but you've never been _standing_ on so _much_ of it at once. It's softer than the coast of any of the Great Lakes, which mostly consist of small pebbles or smooth rocks. The sand in Hawaii is made up of only the finest sized grains of rock, beaten smooth and tiny by the waves. The roar of the ocean, although it doesn't drown out the sound of the children playing on the beach or Grif's voice, is loud.

You take a deep breath, and you can taste the tiny tang of salt in the air, carried by the spray of the waves. The sun is the strongest you've ever felt it, and though it beats down on you, all you feel is the warmth it wraps around you.

The water is so, so blue.

* * *

><p>You breezed through introductions with Grif's family. His mother is some kind of circus performer (you didn't get to hear that part all too well over Grif's protesting), his sister has had several abortions, and his father appeared to be even more laid back than Grif, if that was even possible.<p>

Grif pulled you into his room. The half of it that you were used to looked exactly like how it did when you Skyped. His bed was neater than usual, and Grif claimed that it was much cleaner than it had ever been, but to be honest you could never see the clothes he claimed were strewn around the floor through webcam anyway.

No, it wasn't until you lay on his bed, your head sinking into his soft pillow that you noticed what was strange about his room.

There was a single glow in the dark star sticker, in the middle of his ceiling.

You immediately sat up, eyes still fixated on the point of neon green. "You kept one?" Judging from where it was set up, it had to be Polaris-

"The North Star," Grif confirmed. He flushed as he sat down next to you. "You said it always stays in the same place, right? No matter what. And I always figured...you were my North Star."

You grabbed his shirt and kissed him, long and hard.

'_No, Grif...you are_.'

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: Ta-da~! Happy ending, wrapped with a bow. Thanks for reading!


End file.
